


Nor ever chaste

by extasiswings



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Literary References & Allusions, Poetry, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-12-30 15:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Harriet ruminates on the nature of desire. Peter is entirely happy to assist.





	1. Chapter 1

There were several things Harriet expected in the aftermath of her engagement. She expected to meet Peter’s mother, and so she had. She was prepared to, after some thorough internal wrestling over the ridiculousness of certain social conventions, invest in a new wardrobe more worthy of Lady Peter Wimsey than Miss Harriet Vane. She expected to start making plans, and learn how to control her temper with Helen, and catalogue her belongings to determine what she cared to bring with her in combining her life with Peter’s and what could be given away. She even, if not fully expected, at least acknowledged the possibility that once called away by the Foreign Office, Peter himself may not return to her side for weeks, or even months. 

She had not expected the dreams. 

Harriet had dreamed of Peter before, of course. In Oxford, and on a few scattered occasions prior whereupon she took it on herself to scold her subconscious and bury the thoughts as deep as possible. But those dreams were hazy, drawing on nothing but her own limited experiences of intimacy and speculation. The ones that started after Oxford—well. Those came in sharp focus, informed by the thorough knowledge she gained during their last night together when she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until she could hardly think. 

And they were...distracting. Which was really rather inconvenient, Harriet thought, considering that Peter himself was conspicuously absent, entirely unable to assist her in any particular way even if she could conceive of raising the subject. And she could not. 

It was not that Harriet was a stranger to desire, but her interest was generally more academic. As a novelist, one must understand why people want the things they do and how those wants and needs influence them. On a page, therefore, she had always been perfectly capable of manufacturing romance and intimacy when called on to do so, but there was a level of detachment in that. It was not _her_ desire. 

The personal though, that was a different matter entirely. While attending Shrewsbury, and certainly later on with Sylvia and Eiluned, Harriet had been exposed to any number of frank discussions about sex and pleasure. And of course, while Phillip Boyes had been the first man she took to bed, he was hardly the only one to have engaged her in some form of intimacy up to that point. 

But therein lay the conundrum. Because sex with Phillip Boyes had been more of a domestic chore than a matter of passion; indeed, Harriet had never quite understood what the fuss was about—there were certain things that felt nice to a point, but not spectacular, and she was always left feeling unfulfilled, as if she had climbed up and up and up a mountain only to be knocked off before reaching the summit. She had certainly never learned to _ask_ for anything, not in that sphere of her life. And of course after Boyes there had been no one else. Her prospects were limited enough by the public spectacle of a murder trial, especially given the way she had all but been painted as a Jezebel for the entire world; even if she had been found innocent, she had no real reason to seek out any sort of more intimate companionship. She had Peter and his proposals and their own strange intimacy of shared intellect and confidences and emotion. The physical simply did not come into it. And she had not needed it to. 

But now...now there were the dreams. Dreams that left her flushed and aching, and for the first time in years at least—although in truth she could not recall ever being quite so overwhelmed—she wanted, wanted, _wanted_. 

_I’m told I make love rather nicely_ , Peter said during that fateful first meeting, and Harriet had paid it very little attention at the time, unimpressed as she had been with her _forty-seventh_ proposal. But it returned with a vengeance alongside the dreams, a pointed reminder that made her wonder.

And yet, again, there was nothing to be done about it. It was not as if Harriet could talk about such things...right? No, better to ignore them and get on with everything else that needed her attention. 

That perspective lasted her until June, until the night she woke up with her heart racing, her fingers curled fiercely into her nightdress where it draped over her thigh. For a moment she considered—but then she threw back the blankets and got herself a glass of water that she drained in all of three swallows. That was when she resolved to swallow her pride and no small amount of shame and admit to it.

It was funny in a way, Harriet thought as she sat down to answer Peter’s most recent letter—she had not managed even to tell Peter she loved him in so many words, although she was certain he knew it anyway and would not press, but she was nevertheless searching for words to say that she wanted him. A foolish thought, and not one that he had any real need to know at this juncture, particularly given his absence, but she found herself needing to convey it anyway. 

Perhaps it was mere honesty; she could not be fully truthful in her letters without acknowledging the decidedly out of practice elephant in the room, or at least in her mind. But the how of it posed a challenge. She found herself writing back distractedly, her mind turning over a particularly memorable piece of one of his own missives—

_I should like to write you the kind of words that burn the paper they are written on._

Even thinking it elicited a shiver. 

Would such words still be as unforgivable? Harriet found that hard to imagine. Still, words, both fiery and practical, failed to come to mind. She left the letter to do some editing work on Wilfred for several hours, and when she returned, she dashed off only a single line at the very end. Then, before she could think better of it, she sealed the envelope and posted it. 

There. Done. The die had been cast. 

With no small sense of unease, she returned to her work.

* * *

Lord Peter Wimsey was very much accustomed to receiving letters from his fiancée; indeed, their correspondence had been quite regular since his untimely departure. Her latest was no different than usual, discussing her progress on revising her latest novel, answering questions he had posed in his own letter; but it was the last line, scribbled with harsher, messier strokes than the earlier sections, an afterthought that was in reality a harried confession, that caused him to freeze halfway through a sip of coffee. 

_I dreamed of your hands._

There, in plain black ink. He blinked, but the words did not change. 

_I dreamed of your hands._

At a certain age, it would not do to pretend at obliviousness for its own sake. He could not, and indeed had no desire to mistake her meaning, even without the additional admissions he could read into her fraught penmanship. 

There were several potential responses to such a confession, ranging from teasing to serious to the erotic, but Peter discarded the first immediately. 

Harriet had never been prone to suggesting she wanted or needed anything at all, particularly from him; the ivory chessmen in Oxford were a rare and pleasant diversion from the norm. So, too, he could still recall their earliest conversations—her insistence that he would undoubtedly hold her affair with Boyes against her, as though it was a black mark against her character that she should have dared to feel desire at all, let alone give into it—no, he could not possibly tease her, even gently, knowing it must have taken quite a bit to even write that much. Nor would he wish to even if it hadn’t; he was filled with too much tenderness for that. 

But it did deserve a response, and as soon as possible.

“Bunter,” he called, “do you recall the number for that music shop where you secured those lovely Bach cantatas for me? I believe I need to place an order.”

“Certainly, my lord. Shall I write it down for you?”

“Yes, without delay.”

Afterwards, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. 

_My dearest Harriet…_


	2. Chapter 2

The telegram arrived first. 

PLEASE FORGIVE GIFT FASTER THAN LETTER WILL REPLY SOON —PETER 

Gift? Harriet raised an eyebrow at the telegram and tossed it on her desk. She had not expected—but then, what _had_ she expected? Nothing in particular. She had tried not to think about the letter after she sent it, had avoided contemplating Peter’s reaction. It was entirely reasonable to assume he would write back—he always did—and she determined he would either address her confession or let it pass without comment at such a time. 

Gifts did not enter into the equation, not least because Harriet had so rarely allowed them of him. But, she considered, her lips twitching up as she looked over the telegram again, there was an effusive air to the words that cut off any potential exasperation before it could take root. And he had asked her forgiveness...

It was a few more hours before the gift in question arrived, hours during which Harriet managed to put off her curiosity and finish some work. As it happened, Peter’s selection was not elaborate, but managed to be pointed enough in sentiment—printed sheets of Dowland’s “Come again, sweet love.” 

She felt oddly faint as she thumbed through the pages, a tension she had not realized she was carrying draining out of her as relief flooded in quickly enough to make her head light. So, too, her stomach twisted with something like anticipation. If nothing else, Peter was clearly not disgusted by her admission; not, that she thought he would be necessarily, but there was a difference in wanting her to return any desires he may have and wanting her to speak of her own. 

She should possibly, Harriet acknowledged, stop expecting the rug to be ripped out from under her. She spent five years doing so, refusing to see Peter’s honesty, his earnestness, his actions for what they were truly worth. Since she had agreed to marry him though, since she had accepted that he conceived of a relationship with her on truly equal lines, since he had demonstrated more times than she could count that he was rather more of a miracle than a man...she ought not to tarnish that by waiting for him to disappoint her. He was not Phillip Boyes, would never be anything but leagues beyond Phillip Boyes. 

And he wanted her. 

_To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die, with thee again…_

Harriet touched her lips as she looked back over the first stanza and considered that if that was Peter’s instant response, a letter that he had time to fashion more carefully could very well unravel her.

She did not write back, wanting to wait for whatever response Peter composed to her first—although she did send a telegram. 

FORGIVEN—H 

After that, she left it to him. And when his letter arrived, she resisted the urge to open it immediately, not that such a decision helped her work much given the way her mind kept drifting. But finally, she opened it. 

_My dearest Harriet,_

_I regret that I still lack any indication as to when I might be able to return to you. My activities here have not altered in general substance since my last letter; although the specific locations and times may differ, I spend my days putting out an increasing number of diplomatic fires that seem avoidable and wondering whether my presence in particular is necessary or if anyone would do. As the Foreign Office insists it must be me, I suppose I shall have to accept that conclusion for the time being. But I wish I could see you. There are some conversations that are simply more effective in person._

_Regarding your last letter...I confess I have thought of little else since I read it. I have started this reply many times over with the intention of stating unequivocally that the sentiments you expressed were both welcome and entirely reciprocated. The pages I had sent were a, perhaps clumsy first attempt, and I hope they were not unwelcome. Beyond that, I have other words, many words, both my own and those of others that I could write. But I will not without first requesting your leave to do so._

_My darling, my dear, my love—you know I would give you anything. And so I would ask what it is you want of me, if anything at all._

_All my love,_

_Peter_

Harriet swallowed around the anxiety in her throat as she set the letter aside. She expected—what had she expected? That he would simply assume how to proceed and take control? But he had not. In deference to this thing between them, blossoming so fragile and soft and sweet, he had erred on the side of caution, of clarification. Not a retreat, not a rejection. Curiosity. 

_I would ask what it is you want of me._

He had given her options. She could easily say her admission was a mistake, that she did not, in fact, want anything from him. If she chose not to address it at all, he would likely drop the subject entirely. 

But...Peter had not judged her. Had not shamed her. He wanted her, loved her, and she could trust him. She should trust him.

 _Peter_ , Harriet wrote, pulling a fresh sheet of paper towards her. 

_I find myself in that most ironic of positions—a writer lacking a vocabulary. I try to put words together, and they slip through my hands like smoke. But that lack of description is not disinterest._

_You asked what I wanted, and it is this: If you have words, I would hear them, read them, learn them, as many or as few as you care to share._

_In sweetest sympathy,_

_Harriet_

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of Feelings about the fact that we did not get much of Harriet's perspective re: what is clearly a very loving and active physical relationship in Busman's Honeymoon (while also having a lot of feelings about the snapshots from Peter's POV that we do get, namely, "He knew now that she could render back passion for passion with an eagerness beyond all expectation--and also with a kind of astonished gratitude that told him far more than she knew."). Not to mention, I'm weak for Flirting Through Poetry, which is coming in later chapters. 
> 
> Title from John Donne's "Batter my heart, three-person’d God."


End file.
